Oooh I'm back!

Alright, I have NO IDEA where this plot-bunny came from. If you had told me a week ago I would have written a story including the turtles(one of them at least)and SEX (Warning bells)I would have cringed and vehemently denied all accusations. I just thought I'd share it with you people… Don't tell me I didn't warn you now… Don't worry, nothing descriptive... but the implication is there… Also… there's blood kiddies so beware ok? OH! And some swearing too!

Dedication: to V. who would squeal and run away if she found out I wrote this. ;)

Disclaimer: Don't own them and expect to get sued for this.

Reviews: yes PLEASE!

Also: Am desperately seeking a Beta reader for another TMNT story I'm writing… nothing like this though. Have traumatised myself enough!

UNREALISTIC

There was never any romance between them. There were no candles or flowers or embraces nor where there loving caresses and sweet whispered nothings. There was no talking at all as a matter of fact. It was an unspoken agreement, much like everything else they did, feeling no need for frivolous conversations neither of them had any interest in to begin with.

It was always dark. Even in the day-time, it was a world of shadows the one they took part of: of clear painful detail that left raw memories for him to take home, praying desperately his brothers wouldn't be able to see them in his guilty expression. But they never saw. Not even the first time, when the emotions were in such turmoil he feared they would break right through his skin.

That night… He wished he could be able to blame it all on a moment of weakness, of distress: on a particularly vicious fight with one of his siblings, a bad practice, anything. But he couldn't. It had been a perfectly normal day in early autumn, a perfectly pleasant pepperoni-pizza-based dinner and a perfectly ordinary patrol run. He had spotted her from a rooftop and followed her out of suspicious habit to a deserted, rickety building in central Manhattan. His nerves had been tense and his mind vibrantly alert half-expecting an ambush. Then he was overturned by the same feelings that usually accompanied a particularly violent battle; the same adrenaline that tingled his muscles when a slashing strike managed to break right through his defences when he hadn't been expecting it to. He hadn't expected her so close to him when he had rightened himself nor had he expected that sort of smile to be playing on her blood-red lips and everything else it implied. But then again he had been surprised by a great many things that followed.

They did it.

They did it enveloped by night and dust and he left before he gave himself the chance to think about what had just happened: with joints still weak from that overpowering afterglow and his nostrils still filled with her; with the pungent odour of sex he had up until that moment only ever associated with the unfortunate rape victims they had defended in dark alleyways.

He restlessly paced the sewers at random for so long he lost track of where he was or in what direction he was heading in more than once. He ran, walked, stalked, trying to get rid of the glimpses he got of her: her mouth, her hair, the nape of her neck… All the things he knew would keep on reappearing in his head coated with the taste of red lipstick and shame. It took him over two hours to finally make his way to the lair and when he walked in the living room, Michelangelo and Donatello were thankfully too preoccupied with some Simpsons reruns to pay him particular attention apart from a distracted:

"Hey Bro… Where ya been?"

He found it amazingly easy to act as though nothing had happened, paste on his best-big-brother smile and shrug out an answer he barely had the time to come up with. He forgot the excuse he made up the second he worded it and he was left desperately hoping no one would ask him again. No one did. As soon as he walked into his room the guilt cut him in half. He felt weak and filthy and empty because he had liked it and somehow felt like he shouldn't have; because that had always been something he had looked down on: so trivial and bestial and… human. So part of a group of things he had always been denied and that he was forced to condemn simply because he could never have them in the first place. And now that he had tasted them, the memory was there with him and flashed in dark corners of his mind when he least expected it to for days to come: When he was waiting for his turn to spar, when commercials interrupted his favourite TV-programme, during a slight lull in the conversation at breakfast.

The second time it happened he almost went looking for it. Three weeks to the day later and the remorse was shrieking shrilly in his head so much he found himself near that old familiar building out of his own volition trying to find some sense. In truth he knew he was running exactly the opposite direction to anything that could be remotely be called 'sensible' but he shook the warning bells right out of his brain and carried on walking. He knew she would be there before he even neared the fire-escape ladder he quickly climbed but not once did he question how she foresaw he would come right then, that night, after so many. He found her leaning on a windowsill on the third floor looking out onto the deserted, littered street and he approached her with a sense of dread he dismissed only a few seconds later.

When he got home that night he felt drained and heavy and he spent over three hours in the dojo trying to rid himself of that daze, of her, of everything and anything that came to mind. And he was finally able to distil some of his thoughts into something he could tolerate, into something he could hide at least.

"Yo Leo? Ya plannin' on cuttin' down da homework 'nytime soon?" Raphael with his cocky comments and tough bravado… He really wasn't in the mood.

"Was planning a shower before you walked in."

"Rethinkin' yo options?" Raph's smile was challenging and playful and Leo smiled back out of habit even though sparring was exactly the last thing he felt like doing at the moment.

"Do I really have any?"

"Is 'losing' an option?"

"If it is then I really have none."

He wanted it to be finished before it began and it only took three minutes and two particularly well-placed kicks to the plastron to send his brother sprawling on the mat cursing mildly in surprise. At least his concentration wasn't completely off. Not all the time at least.

The third time purged him of all his guilt and he was left with the only worry of being discovered. But it was a preoccupation he could easily cope with. And he did.

He had gone to the building again and he spent the two minutes it took for her to get there completely devoid of thought watching the dust particles curl around his feet whenever he would shuffle his legs. The minute he felt her presence he shoved her against the wall. And it was needy and desperate and violent this time. More than usual at least. There were no second thoughts and plaguing after that and he never spent any time psychoanalysing the situation anymore.

He had done it once, wondering maybe if this could just have been some distant cry to escape his mutant state, to feel more like part of the living world. But all the theories felt weak and unjustified and much too confused for him to make much sense out of. He gave up soon after that. He had tried to analyse her only once and had never tried again. She was too enigmatic for it and each assumption unsettled him a little bit more.

He knew she had a… reputation in that area, the one of a high-maintenance shag for sure. Apparently she fucked her victims before slitting their throats. Or so he had heard. He wondered why she had never tried it with him: To bring a knife down on him while he laid defenceless and half-expecting her to. Maybe that was why: Maybe she knew he suspected and didn't dare. But that didn't explain why she hadn't done it in their next encounters when she knew he had stopped looking out for signs of danger. He didn't even know why or when he started letting his guard down with her nor did he know when he finally realised he was doing it. He knew he didn't trust her.

He also knew he didn't love her.

He found confirmation for this on a rainy Saturday night during one of his usual patrol runs topside with his brothers. They ran into her and a couple of her foot cronies on a rooftop and the only sign of recognition that passed between the two was a quick wink he might have imagined anyway. He didn't feel sorry or guilty when he unsheathed his katanas and prepared himself to use them against her nor did he fool himself into thinking she would go easy with him now. She was too much of a professional for that. He was absolutely calm as he watched her take Michelangelo and then Donatello down quickly: Only a couple of minutes for each and not even a drop of sweat. He stepped in quickly before Raphael had the chance to and ignored his seething protests as he braced himself for her attack. He fought like he always did: flawlessly and with no pity whatsoever. And there was no regret when he managed to wound her arm, twice, nor did he feel betrayal when her blade pierced through the skin in his side. He knew he would have killed her in a second if he only got the chance.

She got away with a couple of bruises and a few minor injuries, as did he, but that night, when they fucked, it was more violent than usual. They never spoke about the battle; she only acknowledged it by digging her nails into the torn skin on his fore-arms as she came. He knew it was a minor revenge on her part but he didn't care. Not even when he felt a small trickle of fresh blood run down his bicep from the newly reopened wound.

"If I have to kill you I will. You know that." He said afterwards while he watched her get dressed.

"I know" She replied as she buttoned her top.. "But don't expect I'll let you though."

"I never expected you not to fight back."

"I don't want your mercy." She stood up straight and finally turned to face him. "Remember, you might not get the chance to show me any." Her smile was sultry, and her slightly smeared lipstick only accentuated the sharpness of her smirking lips.

"I have no mercy for you. Not anymore." He said softly as she climbed over the windowsill and paused for a second upon hearing his words. She smiled over her shoulder at him but her words held no warmth.

"Nor I for you."

There was no romance between them: no candles, or caresses or sweet-whispered nothings. And the day his blades cut through her throat, there was no pity either.

Fin

It's short I know but… really couldn't bear to write more… I disturbed myself with this.

Review and let me know if it's as bad as I expect….

Thanks for reading!